


The Long Way South

by LogicLoup



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, montage time!, slices of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicLoup/pseuds/LogicLoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Kinloch Hold to Skyhold, by way of all of Thedas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Way South

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bendingwind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingwind/gifts).



**Kinloch Hold, 9:30 Dragon**

As always, Dagna tumbles out of bed bright and early, rushing through morning routine as quickly as she can manage. Washed, dressed, and more or less fed, she hurries to the workshop, taking the basement stairs in two-at-a-time leaps. At the door, she greets Owain with a smile and a cheery “good morning,” which he acknowledges with a slight incline of his head that is, she’s come to realize, positively effusive. Her share of the day’s work order is waiting for her on the scorched bench that has, by agreement both tacit and unanimous, become exclusively hers. Pitching in for the Formari isn’t technically part of her duties — by strictest construction of the agreement struck between First Enchanter Irving and Warden Amell, she doesn’t actually _have_ duties — but it seems only fair considering all she’s been given, and besides, the routine jobs are good for keeping her sharp on the fundamentals. Like her father always said (well… said twice, which was near enough to always), no one’s too good to practice.

It’s a light enough list of chores today: a handful of runes and a carved focusing gem to be shipped out for sale in Denerim, _another_ blasting rod to replace one that’s gone missing, and… oh, that’s interesting. A graduation ring for an apprentice that’s succeeded their Harrowing. Dagna grins at the chance to work on something she’s never had a chance to try before. The plain silver band is a simple enough thing, on its own, but the detail work on the lyrium etching… Sticking an extra serif onto a Tevene sigil to cover an unexpected twitch of the hand is easy enough, even adds a little touch of style that some people seem to appreciate; the scale of the ring simply affords no physical _room_ for error. A challenge, then. Not the same kind of challenge as engineering a dual-key barrier from scratch, but a challenge even still, and never let it be said that Dagna backs down from any challenge ever. She takes a breath, pulls on her gloves and mask, and sets to work.

* * *

**Statio Australis, 9:33 Dragon**

“It’s fine! I’ve got it under control!” Dagna shouts as she whips off her heavy leather apron, pressing it to the flaming remains of the apparatus that had, up until just a moment ago, been singing in the key of lyrium. In retrospect, the fact that the song was discordant might possibly have been a clue that something was not quite right here, and that maybe, just possibly, the magister’s private chamber wasn’t the best place for the demonstration after all. “No need to fuss, just give it a moment for the fire to choke.” Pointedly ignoring the venomous glares leveled at her by the magister and his cronies, she gives the apron a good firm pat.

One of the apprentices swipes fussily at the front of his cloth-of-gold robes, sweeping away soot that only exists in his imagination. “And just _what_ , in the names of the Maker and his Prophet, was _that_ display intended to accomplish?”

Dagna is proud to consider herself a professional, and so, in spite of all temptation, she does not roll her eyes. “As I explained in the paper I submitted to Magister Tebrin, it’s an objectively observable fact that the strength of the Veil in an area has a measurable effect on nearby lyrium. My device uses-” Frowning, she lifts a corner of the apron, releasing a puff of ozone-scented smoke. “My device _used_ a small lyrium crystal suspended in lyrium solution as a resonator, converting the alterations into audible tones.”

Another apprentice lets out a laugh that makes her sound like a nug with the sniffles. “Perhaps things are different in the caves your people inhabit, glaebula, but up here, fire is not an ‘audible tone.’”

 _Little clod._ Do they really think she hasn’t managed to pick up _any_ Tevene in all the time she’s been here? But, still and always, she is a professional. “All of my test runs produced results entirely within expected and safe margins, as my paper detailed. I wouldn’t have gone ahead with the formal demonstration if I’d thought this time would be any different.”

“I know it’s a bit early, but do you have any thoughts on what went wrong? Perhaps insight into the nature of this problem would help to clarify-”

“We’ve taken enough of the artificer’s time.” The skinny little altus with the sharp blue eyes is cut off by the magister’s abrupt intrusion. Like Dagna, the altus is respectfully silent. Also like Dagna, the altus’ face leaves it absolutely clear that she thinks the magister’s attempt at courtesy is worth about as much as a wet bronto plop. Probably less. Crap can at least grow mushrooms. As Dagna bends to scoop up the wreckage, the magister tuts at her. “In the unlikely event that anything can be salvaged from this disaster, it will be collected and sent to you in due time.”

That tears it. Dagna wraps her apron around the device as she stands to glare at Tebrin. “With respect, _ser_ , suck three pebbles.” She turns on her heel and stomps out.

* * *

**Tine Tower, 9:35 Dragon**

Despite Atisha’s half of their study carrel being empty, Dagna doesn’t give it much thought, aside from being just the tiniest bit put out at the awful timing. The problem with a mage’s Harrowing being a secret to everyone but the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander, she decides, is that it’s impossible to have a proper congratulation gift prepared. It’ll have to be something nice — elegant, even — but quick to put together. Maybe a ring? Something like the ones given to the new mages back at Kinloch, though of course she can improve on the design. She flips to a clean page of her journal and starts sketching. An open spiral of spring steel, instead of a closed silver band… four turns for the four schools… runes etched on the inner and outer surfaces… stones set in the curls at either end… There. Perfect.

Most days, Dagna lingers as long past the end of her allotted library time as the archivists would allow, poring over freshly scribed journals, archaic tomes, blueprints, treatises… anything she could get her hands on from the slowly dwindling supply of works she hasn’t read yet. Today, though, she neatly stacks her books on the table to be re-shelved before the bells are done chiming, and scurries off to the Formari’s basement workshop. Hours pass unmarked as she pours herself into her work, the muted chiming of the lyrium accompanied by the tap of the hammer and skritch of the burin. When she looks up after the final pass of the polishing cloth, she’s alone in the shop, her candle half-drowned in its own melted wax. No time to look for something pretty to wrap the ring in, she grabs the guttering candle stump and dashes for the door. With luck, she’ll make it upstairs to the mage dormitory before curfew.

“Dagna.” A soft, flat voice stops her in her tracks. Atisha is standing in the corridor, a small satchel held loosely in her hands. “I was told you could show me to the Tranquil’s quarters.”

No. No no no no no wrong wrong wronger than wrong. Dagna turns, looks up, sees the sunburst brand still raw, shining with burn salve and lyrium. “Sure.” She forces a smile, because that’s what you do for friends. “Let’s get you settled in.”

* * *

**Montsimmard, 9:38 Dragon**

The dimming of the hearth fire in a sudden draft is just unexpected enough that it pulls Dagna from her reading. After tucking her bookmark neatly into place and setting the book on the end table, she pads over to the fireplace, crouching low to prod at the fragrant applewood. She tells herself she’s being paranoid, that the floridly threatening letter sealed with the First Enchanter’s crest had just been the old man letting off steam, getting a bit of his own back after she’d picked his pet theories apart in front of his assembled colleagues. After all, no one would _really_ take _that_ kind of offense to an academic disagreement, would they?

With the fire going strong again, she pulls her housecoat closer around herself and settles back into the cozy, overstuffed armchair once again. She picks up her book and finds her place, too engrossed to notice anything until a few pages later when there’s a solid _thunk_ right beside her, something thin and pointy jutting into the edge of her peripheral vision. Cautiously, she turns her head, and sure enough, there it is, a crossbow bolt punched through the back of her chair, angled upward as if it had been pushed abruptly off course. Dagna pats the leather vest tucked under her housecoat, fingertips tracing the deflection rune she’d etched into the thick hide.

Alright, so maybe someone _would_ take that kind of offense. Indignant, she stands, turning toward the door as she steps out from behind the shelter of the chair.

“Excuse me.” She pulls a balloon from her pocket and lobs it at the woman with the crossbow. The balloon pops, releasing the glue inside to spatter over the newly-loaded bolt, sticking it into the slot. “I ordinarily don’t tell other people how to do their jobs, but I can’t help but notice you seem to have been given some rather unfortunate misinformation about me.”

The woman drops the gummed-up crossbow and pulls a pair of daggers from over her hips as she stalks forward. Dagna holds up her empty hands takes a half step backward. “For example,” she continues conversationally, “you seem to have been expecting someone a good bit taller. I get that a lot.”

There’s a frustrated snarl from the would-be assassin as she continues her steady, purposeful advance. Her attention is fully fixed on Dagna, watching for any signal of intent to draw a weapon. Dagna simply offers a small smile, her hands still raised. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance this is just a misunderstanding that we can talk through?”

Another step back for Dagna, two forward for the assassin, the second one wavering as a foot lands on the slight bump under the rug. A faint glow shows even through the heavy weave of the rug as the mine beneath detonates. One heartbeat, the assassin is right there, just a whisper out of striking distance, the next she’s sliding down the far wall, plaster cracked and crumbling from the force of impact.

Dagna tiptoes up beside the woman lying on the floor and nudges her with her toes. When there’s no response, she crouches down and rolls her onto her back, holding a hand lightly over her nose and mouth. At the faint tickle of breath on her palm, Dagna lets out a relieved sigh. She does the best she can to make the woman comfortable — no sense adding injury to insult to injury — before untying the purse from her guest’s belt. As she tallies up the collection of coins spilling from the pouch into her hand, she sets aside a moment of pique at her apparent retail value, then surveys the room. The plaster will need replacing, of course. The rug is a lost cause, and the floorboard beneath really could use a carpenter’s attention. A couple of royals ought to cover the cost of repairs and cleaning, and the rest should help keep rumors from really spreading until after she’s concluded her visit to the Circle library.

* * *

**Tantervale, 9:41 Dragon**

Of course she’d heard about the Inquisition. How could there be anyone in Thedas who _hadn’t_ heard about it all by now? And of course, she was almost literally _itching_ to study it all up close. But even still, Dagna was caught utterly unprepared for the moment when she opened her door to see a pair of capably sketchy-looking humans standing there.

“Arcanist Dagna?” the one on the left asked. At Dagna’s nod, she continued, “Inquisition Scout Weaver, ma’am. We’ve an invitation for you, if you’ve a mind to accept.”

“What sort of invitation?”

The one on the right pulls a fold of parchment from under his cloak, and passes it to Dagna. She cracks the wax seal — it’s embossed with the eye and sword emblem Dagna can see half-obscured on the scouts’ cloak pins — and carefully unfolds the page. Inside is a few brief lines of neat, gently curling script:

Arcanist Dagna —  
Your reputation as a scholar of uncommon insight far precedes you,  
and the Inquisition stands in great need of your expertise as both  
scholar and crafter. If you are willing to join us, my scouts will see to  
it that your travel to Skyhold is swift and secure.  
In gratitude,  
Leliana

It’s a very near thing, but Dagna manages to remember that she is a professional, and professionals do not let out giddy squeals like a nug in soft moss. She can’t keep herself from grinning, though, and doesn’t even really try. “Yes! Absolutely, I accept.”

“Glad to hear it, ma’am,” Weaver replies. “Will you be needing much time to pack? We have instructions to be under way as soon as you’re able.”

Dagna looks down at the message, then back up to Weaver and her quiet companion. “This place of yours… Skyhold… how well outfitted is it?”

“I won’t lie, it’s pretty rough, or it was when we left. But it’s got the basics for smithing and sewing, and the ambassador’s been able to call favors from all over. Anything we don’t have, you’re just a letter away from having.”

“Just my own things, then. Alright. Shouldn’t be long.” Dagna steps back from the doorway. “You’re welcome to come in, in the meantime.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” says Weaver, as not-Weaver nods and they both step in. They’re not much for idle chatter, these scouts, but they’re polite, and helpful, offering to help Dagna put her things in order. They hide it well, but they’re surprised to discover just how quickly and efficiently Dagna can put her life into boxes and bags of ‘keep’ and ‘leave’ and ‘return’ and ‘give away’. Within the hour, they’re carrying out a parcel each — a few changes of clothes, her collection of mostly-indignant letters, the dog-eared and broken-spined books that have been with her since Orzammar — and setting out on the long way south.


End file.
